A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal
by Vicki Turner
Summary: Ziva David is no stranger to death. This is a series of drabbles exploring Ziva's history with different faces of death from sickness, to bombs, from guns, to knives. Each drabble can stand alone, but together they map Ziva's unique perspective on death.
1. Sickness

I. Makhalá (_sickness) _

When Ziva caught a cold, she couldn't play outside for a day. When her mother coughed up blood, she died. A black curtain over the window blocked out the summer sun and oppressive silence hung in the air once filled by her mother's laborious breathing. Father held a cold, petite hand as the doctor apologized; Ziva ran out into the hallway. She didn't see Ari in the armchair put down his biology textbook until he grabbed her shoulders and turn her around. "Ziva." He pulled her into an embrace, letting her cry as he sung her a beautiful, haunting melody.


	2. Bomb

II. P'tzatzah (_bomb_)

Scraping melted flesh off charred sidewalks seemed vindictive, but Ziva understood Agent Tzahal's rationale for sticking her on domestic terror. Although, Mossad's primary concern was foreign operations, modern Israel blurred the line between citizen and foe. Two months into the assignment, Ziva smelled explosive residue in her coffee and burned flesh in her shakshuka. The Deputy Director approved her transfer to London after Tali.

Sixteen. Walking to dance school after lunch. Closed casket funeral.

At the funeral, Ziva David refused to speak, to cry. However, she allowed Eli to kiss his surviving daughter-the first time since she became Mossad.


	3. Gun

III. K'liy (_gun_)

Back straight. Shoulders back. One hand holding. One supporting. Simple. Easy. Almost like when she was thirteen, Ari's calloused hands covering hers, Eli standing back far enough, safe from stray shell casings, a smile on his face. This was her Bat Mitzvah present.

"First rule of firearms, sister," Ari's serious whisper bled into the desert wind, "Don't aim at anything you don't want to destroy."

Breathe in and aim. Breathe out and fire. Simple. Easy.

The gunshot echoed in the basement, drowning out the splattering of blood. Over her brother's lifeless body Ziva sung a too familiar beautiful, haunting melody.


	4. Knife

IV. Sakiyn (_knife_)

Red hair helped her spot the American agent. Unfortunately, the catching color on the dusty side streets of Cairo, away from tourist sneakers and short skirts clued in unfriendly faces as well. Ziva sped up, fingering the sharp blade hidden in the folds of her abaya. Extreme modesty, sometimes, was the most deadly of disguises.

Wonderfully warm blood oozed over one hand as the other muffled the dying moan. Ziva smiled toward the sun, and cleaned her stained hands with dirt.

"You should at least wear a hijab." She stuck out her sandy hand. "Ziva David, Mossad."

"Jenny Sheppard, NCIS."


	5. Credit Card

V. Kartis-ashra'i (_credit card_)

Rain attacked the ATM booth where Ziva was finishing her last task; Mossad had wired Euros for the exchange though bullets remained the planned currency. She assumed the man approaching needed to withdraw late night cash.

A mistake.

Ziva turned just in time to see untamed lust shining in his eyes. Slammed against the metal machine, Ziva accidently crushed the credit card. She threw her head back and he staggered. She seized the jagged card and sliced his throat by sheer force. Stepping outside, her shaking hands dialed a memorized number.

"Malachi?" Her voice wavered. "I need a new card."


	6. Radiation

VI. H'nirak (_radiation_)

The absence of noise—the wheezing ventilator, the squeaking IV tube, the beeping heart monitor—caused the small room to feel like an ancient pharaoh's crypt. Ziva couldn't help but consider the man, wrapped in blinding white bandages to cover bleeding blisters a mummy; the whole process of dying, the body's slow steady deconstruction, his embalming. She felt intrusive like a tomb robber, an undeserving witness to departed brilliance. Or a servant buried alive with the dead; this grief, unexpected, unprofessional, unplanned suffocated her.

The only treasure left to steal, only connection left to cherish was his bright orange hat.


	7. Sword

VII. H'erev (_sword_)

Her first week officially as Mossad, they shipped her to some distant village in the Iraqi foothills. Her partner Malachi was experienced, intelligent, and protective; Ziva knew Eli was responsible for her favorable placement.

Their target stood center of the village yelling in Arabic. Behind him, two men roughly held a young woman—a girl—accused of adultery. For a second, Ziva saw Tali's face, scared and crying. Suddenly, the sun caught an unsheathed sword and the girl's head bounced off the sand.

Ziva gasped.

Malachi gently squeezed her shoulder and consoled, "Don't worry, Ziva, tonight you'll slice his throat."


	8. Internal Bleeding

VIII. Tokhiy dimem (_internal bleeding_)

He slammed the passenger door, his silence as loud as the red blood on his white scrubs. Ziva floored it and turned sharply from Edinburgh hospital parking garage, hoping screeching tires and honking horns would shake something out of him.

"The scalpel nicked an artery," he confessed, "Stupid hand tremor."

"And your patient died," she guessed. "I'm sorry."

"_Stom ta'peh_, I don't care about that; I just never make... mistakes are unforgivable." A pause. "What does he want now?"

Ziva handed him the case file.

"Return to London and eliminate local Hamas cell... with surgical precision."

Ari's bitter laugh echoed.


	9. Pillow

IX. Kar (_pillow_)

Beautiful, young, fiery—moreover Mossad ensured all women built the required walls for this kind of assignment. Officer Shkolnik smiled. "You'll do."

The dossier included a photo of a terrorist: mid-forties, unhappily married, and heavily guarded. Her instructions were simple: seduce and destroy. Though signed by the Director, Eli's invisible scrawl hid underneath.

The amorous approach, the sly proposition, the secluded rendevous—everything was depressingly easy. After their debauched passion, Ziva refused to wonder if the sleeping man looked angelic.

Several minutes later his struggling stopped and Ziva discarded the pillow. She'd call a clean-up crew after a long shower.


	10. Fish Food

X. Dag khel (_fish food_)

Floating upside down, bloated and silent, the fish's golden scales reflected the Israeli sun streaming through the kitchen window. Ziva twirled her finger in the water, hoping to wake it up.

"It's dead, Ziva," Eli David took his four-year-old's hand out of the bowl.

"But_, Abba_..." her little voice broke, "I took good care of it."

He ran his fingers though her wild hair. "Ah, my Ziva, too much affection can be dangerous. Sometimes love requires withholding many things, good things that seem necessary."

"Like food?"

"Like food." Eli didn't dry her tears, but kissed the top of her head.


	11. Fingers

XI. Etz'ba (_fingers_)

Across the near-empty bullpen (case firmly closed, but extra paperwork for her), nervous shuffling of papers and illogical clicking of the keyboard drew Ziva's attention to the uncomfortable, not-but-in-some-ways-still probationary agent. His unspoken question hung in the air, glittering in the skylight. She passed Gibb's vacant desk and sat down on the edge of his.

"Training helps, but perception is key."

Out of the corner of her eye she saw movement. Instinctively, she squished the bug encroaching upon the two friends between her index finger and thumb.

"You don't obsess over killing an insect, McGee...but I do appreciate your concern."


	12. Missile

XII. Tiyl (_missile_)

A confiscated convertible tore down Tel Aviv streets towards the Mediterranean. The two passengers hoped to wash away their responsibilities and duties with the tide. Tomorrow there'd be pain, sabotage, lies. Today, sunshine, sand and annoying pop songs on the radio.

Desperate to find better entertainment, they stumbled upon an urgent news bulletin:

"Retaliatory Israeli air strike obliterates refugee camp in Rafah, South Gaza..."

Ziva choked on suddenly absent air. Ari pulled over, flipped the radio off and slammed the steering wheel.

"Eli, you _mamzer."_

Stuck between love and loyalty, sympathetic silence was her only salve for his burning grief.


End file.
